


IRREPLACEMENT

by herbalistic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M, Minor Character Death, gently implied alcohol dependency, ie. a lot of drinking, post-DH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:48:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbalistic/pseuds/herbalistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>where she once sat square at the front she retires to the back, enters five minutes late and leaves a fraction early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	IRREPLACEMENT

love and laughter cheap thrills ever after

POLLY SCATTERGOLD

 

 

They move to London. Hermione means to return to Hogwarts for the year, in the event deferring again to find her parents; September through June. She travels to where she left them a year previous, and when she does she goes alone.

Hermione goes alone and Hermione returns alone. It takes her three months to traverse the nation, and in that period her hair wilts and her shoulders sink.

“I came too late,” she says upon her return, and this is all she needs to say. She drinks in silence for the rest of the evening.

 

She rents a flat in Hogsmeade in late August. It’s above the shop that used to be Zonko’s, now a Weasley’s, and the front door makes a sound like a sigh when she pushes it open. Ron and Harry visit her or she visits Ron and Harry. She is a curio to her fellow students and a gift to her teachers. There’s a novelty to having a twenty year old among teenagers, especially one with her own Chocolate Frog card.

This is reflected: where she once sat square at the front she retires to the back, enters five minutes late and leaves a fraction early. She lunches at The Leaky Cauldron with Neville, Hannah Abbott and too many butterbeers, returns the way only she knows how and hides in the library over dinner. The houseelves bring her food when she requests it, a clumsy tribute to the combination of her naivety and Dobby that makes her want to cry. She takes to eating together with them in the basement kitchens, or turning down dinner altogether and heading back past the Whomping Willow to The Hogs Head where she can drink undisturbed. “We are worried about you, Miss.” They chime when she doesn’t join them for a week.

“Don’t worry about me,” she says, “I am free.” She means for it to sound deep but it only sounds hollow, the kind of thing she would have said at fifteen. It settles for a moment and then she says, “Give me all the Butterbeer you have.”

Even that’s not enough.

 

Harry tries to sympathise and she hates herself for thinking it but she thinks it all the same: _you never knew them_.

The Potters died for their son and the Grangers died because of their daughter and there’s no running away from that. Hermione cannot be proud of sacrifice nor bravery, just dawning confusion and a bright flash of green light.

 

Most nights she sits with Lee Jordan in their tiny kitchen. George left the shop in his keeping, and now he shares the flat above it for ground rent and half the bills. Empty bottles of wine stack on the empty shelves as curious trophies of accomplishment, some with candles stuffed into their necks and others magically refilling, their charm soon turned to vinegar. Every night a bottle sits between them.

“How’s business?” She ventures, making conversation.

“Slow” Lee says, shrugs.

Hermione pauses, sometimes their conversation turns like this, from their usual long and friendly cadence to this stuttering slow. There’s only one way it goes from here, and it goes thus; “I miss Fred.”

Lee twitches at the name, his hand sliding further around the stem of his glass. He insists they drink out of wine glasses, make some ceremony of it. Then it’s not just drinking, you know. Eventually he says, “Me too.”

“How’s George?”

“He’s coping.”

She finishes her wine, “You should be with him.”

Lee shrugs again, flicks his eyes up to hers, “It’s been a year.”

 

They vacate to the Burrow, for Christmas, Hermione dragging down Lee at Molly’s bequest. “It’ll be weird.” Lee says, and Hermione agrees, pulls a face.

“For me.”

 

She’s notionally there as Ron’s girlfriend, in the same way that Harry’s Ginny’s boy and Lee’s the surviving twins’ _something_. They are there together and they are there alone, half guests in a house they grew up in as much as the redheads. Molly fusses and Arthur still wheezes after heavy exertion but the house laughs under the strain.

Little Teddy Lupin hiccups through Christmas dinner and Bill announces Fleur’s second pregnancy. Molly cries, Molly smiles, Molly sings along to the radio too loudly. Her children are grown up, and having children of their own – this she sees when Harry smiles coyly at her husband and guides Ginny away by her back. The children are gone and forgotten save for Hermione, who says into her drink, “My parents are dead.”

Arthur Weasley eyes her through his firewhiskey. “Shit.”

“I don’t have anything.”

Arthur’s tone is sincere, “You have us.”

“I want my mum.”

“I know,” Arthur says and he wraps his arms tight around her while she cries.

 

It’s only the second time she successfully sleeps with Ron, that Christmas. She and Harry leave it ‘til after midnight to switch rooms, and she has to tickle Ron awake. “Ronald,” she chides as she slides cold hands under his duvet.

“Fuck.” He starts. “Oh. It’s you.”

She tries to smile. “I’ll go back to bed then.”

Ron groans, “Stay. Wait—have you been crying?”

“Only a little,” she says when she lands a kiss on his lips, and then his jaw and then his chest. Her hair rucks up around his chin as she slides herself down beneath his duvet. She feels the muscles twitch as she progress south.

“My par—“

“Are probably doing the same thing right about now.”

Ron stills. “And you’ve just killed it.”

She pauses, giggles, “Sorry.”

 

Ron accompanies her to Hogsmeade for the first week of second term. He makes her go to the welcome feast, sits next to her with his left hand tight on her thigh and Hermione feels curious eyes on her throughout. She hates people watching her eat, and so eats very little and drinks a great deal.

“I want to go,” she says, eyelids heavy.

“We haven’t even had pudding yet!” Ron protests, and she groans. Her gaze flicks to McGonagall in Dumbledore’s old seat, and the headmistress’ eye catches hers. She is _concerned_ about Hermione. She deserves to do well, you see, despite and perhaps especially because of recent events. Ron follows it and to his credit he’s getting good at reading her. “They’ll be bouli-thingy.”

“That’s a main course, Ronald.” And she smiles at him because he knows and his shoulders settle.

In the end Hermione has a second helping of apple crumble and doesn’t feel guilty.

 

Her bed creaks under their combined weight. “Shh,” she breathes, “Lee’s asleep.”

“You try and be fucking quiet.”

“That’s exactly what I am being.”

He shifts so that she gasps and throws her a look. “Shut up.”

 

The door to the shop swells in January, and for three days Lee and Hermione are stuck inside. The first night they sit in the kitchen. “Fuck marry kill. McGonagall, Sprout, Trelawney.” Hermione possets with a smirk.

Lee wrinkles his nose. “Fuck—oh god no.”

“The game’s the game.” She holds his gaze steady when she swigs at her beer. It’s cheap Muggle lager bought in the offy the village down, and all the better for it. “So—?”

He swears under his breath. “Trelawney. McGonagall. Sprout.”

“Interesting.”

His laugh echoes into his bottle. “Your turn,” a pause while he considers, “For fucks sake. Everyone’s fucking dead.”

There’s a silence, and then the pair break out into laughter. “No,” Lee says between breaths, “I’ve got one! Shut up!” He waits for her smile to fade slightly, “Arthur Weasley. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Percy Weasley.”

“That order.” Hermione says without hesitation, giggles when Lee frowns.

“Kill Percy?”

“He’s a prick.” Hermione says, and sounds so much like Ron she surprises herself.

 

Somehow three hours pass. “I should go to bed,” Hermione sighs and stretches her limbs.

“Wait,” Lee slurs, “I have one more.” He holds up a finger, waggles it towards her so she has to sit back down to avoid it.

“Go on.” Her legs curl back up underneath her.

“Me, George and Ron.”

“Easy. Fuck George. Marry Ron.” She lets it hang a second, “Kill you.”

 

Eventually Hermione will marry Ron and be happy, and one day soon she’ll fuck George too out of plain spite.

She will never kill Lee though – together they survive.


End file.
